


Thaw

by ThePraxianWeasleyGeek



Series: Christmas giftfics 2017 [3]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, References to self-harm/self-destructive behaviour, self-destructive behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 03:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek/pseuds/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek
Summary: Blackarachnia sits out in the cold for at least three hours. She won't be missed.





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> A very, very late posting of a giftfic from last year that I just plain forgot to upload here! Recommendation is to read this one and then the fluffier, newer Blitzarachnia one, just for the sake of your own emotions.

Blackarachnia sits out in the cold for at least three hours. 

 

She won't be missed - it's her off shift now, which is why she was doing the damn research in the first place - so she feels perfectly justified in remaining here, shoulders hunched and arms tucked over her knees, as the snow settles into quiet drifts around her. The numbness that comes creeping after it keeps her limbs locked in place, preventing any movement even if she did intend to budge. 

 

And she doesn't. This fresh avenue had been so,  _ so _ promising: new code, stolen right from under Perceptor’s nose and inspired, so far as she can tell, by the Elite Guard’s interactions with that little half-human brat. Chains of commands that have the potential to slip into the gaps between circuits and nerves and bridge them - and for a moment Blackarachnia had envisioned writing up a beautiful, blazing kill code, that would sear away all her organic matter, leaving pure, raw protoform behind. 

 

But she has nothing to program that kill code  _ to _ . No way of representing a live, solely organic Archa Seven spider as lines of data in a chip, and a dead sample, which she is far more likely to be able to get her hands on, would be worse than useless. She doesn't even know if her organic side is similar enough to the  _ things _ that gave it to her - the disaster with the Allspark key proved that her DNA and nervous system are thickly entangled with her circuitry. 

 

Thus, Blackarachnia has decided that she will sit out here and cease to care about what the cold does to her; there have been too many crashes like this, where she has been buoyed up and feverish with anticipation, only to plummet back down again the moment she encounters a stumbling block. Too many, and each one chips away at her ability to care.

 

It's funny, really. One would think, after all this time, that she'd learn not to hope. Optimism was what landed her in this state, after all - single-minded, blinkering optimism, that everything would turn out for good and she and Optimus and Sentinel would all be stood there at the end, smiling and landed on their feet. 

 

That ought to have been her lesson, yet still she clings to each new chance. 

 

Perhaps a part of her is still looking for the moment when the rope doesn't fail, where she soars free and scrambles to safety, high above the dark things that lurk in the pit. 

 

A chilled gust of wind slices past her, but the sensors under her skin are too deadend to produce so much as a shiver. She amuses herself, momentarily, with the idea of icicles forming along her stingers; or her body becoming so thoroughly frosted-up that she can only spit frozen bits of web. 

 

_ Icy would threaten me with copyright infringement.  _

 

But Blitzwing isn't here, right now - it's his duty shift, and he's been slapped on perimeter patrol, and Blackarachnia is glad that he won't have to see her in this state.  _ Nobody _ is here, right now, whom she can talk to about this great itch of a thing clawing up her insides; so here she will sit, in an attempt to freeze it out. 

 

Perhaps this is the solution: cease to move, and all her soft, weak organic parts may wither away, without need for intervention. It's that or stasis lock, and either seems a more preferable outcome, at this point, to going back downstairs and trying to push her way through her next shift - trying not to fall apart at the seams mentally, instead of physically as she so badly wants. 

 

It isn't much longer until the edges of her optic display begin to blur, then dim; nor long after that when the first crawl of static fritzes its way across her vision. The tips of her claws may as well be nonexistent, and the cold has permeated semi-flesh to the pure mechanics below. 

 

Her breath is no longer visible on the air, and she's not sure if that's the fault of her optic sensors or her internal temperature. 

 

Blackarachnia wonders distantly how she's going to explain this to the others, when she inevitably fails to show up for her next shift. For all that the Autobots are far too scalpel-happy, they at least have a concept of mental healthcare, however rudimentary it may be. No matter how she tries to fit in amongst these warlike creatures, Elita One had been softened up before she gained her shell; that vulnerable centre abides, and she cannot ask the Decepticons to understand it. 

 

She struggles to ask for sympathy from the sole exception, seeing as she is the  _ reason _ he understands. 

 

Another flash of static, and Blackarachnia's sight cuts out for a few seconds. She's too far gone, now, to stumble back into base and hope that she’ll thaw out during lab work - returning to face her comrades will only be a damning show of weakness. 

 

_ Though what else would they really expect, from the organic? _

 

Besides, her leg joints are surely too iced-up for her to move if she wanted. She shifts, faintly, and realises that there's a light powdering of snow across her shoulders. When she bites down on her lower lip, her fangs make only a numb impression - no sharp sting. 

 

She presses harder. Just as she begins to feel a slight needle-prick, there's a sudden shriek of jet engines overhead. 

 

So, the patrol’s back; Blitzwing and Lugnut, come to report to Megatron, which means that fiery wrath will shortly rain down upon Blackarachnia when she doesn’t show up to relieve them. 

 

Quite unexpectedly, one set of engines cuts out in midair - the louder of the two continues, roaring away to where the mine’s entrance opens, but an ominous sort of whistling noise sounds in the other one's place. Seconds later comes a  _ thump _ that sends the snow up in shuddering clouds; one that Blackarachnia can feel the vibrations of even through her frozen sensors. 

 

“ _ Blackarachnia- ? _ ” 

 

She hunches her shoulders as much as she's able, refusing to turn and look. He wasn't supposed to see her like this. 

 

There's a series of heavy crunching sounds through the snow, then two smaller thuds and a shadow that looms over her. Blitzwing's dropped to his knees, slamming a fist into the ground so that his body forms a great, sheltering cave of an arch above her. 

 

“D-don't skip debrief on my account,” Blackarachnia gasps, and is a little startled by the fragility of her voice. 

 

Above her, she hears a familiar whir. 

 

“You stupid,  _ stupid _ thing!” growls Hothead - but the gentle arms that encircle Blackarachnia are at odds with his words. “You think I would worry about my duties with you doing  _ this _ ?! You think I want to stand and report to Megatron when I've seen you out here, freezing yourself into stasis?!” 

 

Faceplates switch again, and Random nuzzles into her shoulder. “If you wanted to make snowbots, you could've just said!” 

 

And Random is sneaky - while Blackarachnia is busy huffing and trying ineffectually to push his face away, he pulls her, swiftly, further into his arms, right up near his chest. Blitzwing is built like a furnace; his two alt modes burn fuel like nobody's business, and he runs hotter than even Lugnut. (She's worked, time and again, to build better insulation on his hyperfrost cannons to compensate). 

 

Even without direct contact, the abrupt contrast of temperature is scalding. Blackarachnia squirms, and Blitzwing immediately releases her. 

 

“My apologies,” says Icy. “Your - your organic components, I forgot…” 

 

Blackarachnia laughs bitterly. “By all means, try to burn them off. Freezing clearly hasn't worked.” 

 

He sucks in a breath. “Surely you wouldn't be so reckless- ?”

 

“Not… intentionally,” she admits, still refusing to look at him. “But the longer I sat out here, the more it seemed like a good idea.” 

 

Huge black servos tentatively reach for her again. Huge,  _ warm _ black servos - only half thinking, Blackarachnia grasps one with both of her own hands, pulling it against the side of her helm. 

 

“I think this works for now.” Her voice is still raspy, but stronger for having seen use. 

 

Blitzwing makes a bewildered noise in the back of his throat. 

 

“Blackarachnia - why did you do this?  _ You're _ the scientist, you know what harm these temperatures can cause you. What if you'd been stasis locked, and I hadn't seen you?” 

 

“I guess someone would've dug me out in the morning.” 

 

“ _ Stop talking like that! _ ” Hothead reappears, wrenching his hand away from her face to seize her by the shoulders. “Where's your strength? Where's your  _ spark _ ? It was there before I left for patrol - this isn't like you!” 

 

It’s a novel thing, Blackarachnia muses, to hear Hothead sounding scared. 

 

“My  _ strength _ quit around the time I realised that code won't work,” she says, inching closer to get the full benefit of his body heat as he leans over her. She is actually aware of her legs below her knees, now, which is progress. 

 

Icy appears to have noticed her efforts; he whirs into place and starts to carefully rub at Blackarachnia's shoulders, more mindful of what the friction might do to her frostbitten organic tissue. 

 

“You've had setbacks before,” he murmurs. “I don't recall you acting like this - there's always another avenue, after all.” 

 

Blackarachnia finally glances up, meeting his optics, and is startled by how  _ vulnerable _ he looks - which is absurd, considering their respective circumstances. Yet there's an earnestness there that she usually only sees in Random's toothy, puppydog smiles; something that almost wants to be admiration, if it weren't overshadowed by concern. 

 

The idea that  _ he _ , of all mecha, might admire her is also absurd… but she's slowly getting used to it. 

 

“What changed?” asks Blitzwing.

 

She has to look away again, before answering. Logically, she's aware that the general conventions about keeping a guard up no longer apply between Blitzwing and herself - but having lived around Starscream and Strika and Megatron, it's hard to shake that spectre of expectation. 

 

“Nothing's changed,” Blackarachnia finally gets out. “I'm still living the same cycle over and over, where I think I've found the miracle cure, and then it blows up in my face - because the universe can't resist reminding me that  _ hey, you're an abomination beyond help _ .” 

 

Blitzwing seems to have no words with which to respond, from any third - another novelty. In lieu of speech, Icy simply leans forward, sliding his arms further around Blackarachnia and pressing his lips to the crown of her helm. The gesture very nearly undoes her.

 

“I just…” she whispers. “I knew if I stayed inside much longer, this time, trying to pretend I hadn't had another reminder of what a great big cosmic joke I am... I'd snap.” 

 

She manages the smallest smile, and this time feels the nip of her fangs. “And I can't leave Megatron alone as the last sane mech on this base.” 

 

Random finds something to say about that, at least: “You think a sane mech would promote Starscream?” 

 

Blackarachnia adds to his raucous laughter with a tiny huff - her breath now warm enough to create a cloud of vapour as it escapes. “Even more reason for me to keep it together, then.” 

 

“But not like this.” Icy is back again, and his voice is low and serious. “Not by damaging yourself. Not when we both possess commlinks, the last time that I checked.” 

 

The small, ugly part of Blackarachnia, that still dwells in the pit with the dark things, whispers that she'd be selfish to accept the help Blitzwing is offering. Thankfully, for once, it's drowned out by the knowledge that he's risked the ire of Megatron himself to be out here offering it to her. It would be selfish, she tells the dark things,  _ not _ to accept. 

 

“Alright,” she says aloud. “It's a deal. But only if you carry on being my space heater until I thaw out.” 

 

Random returns with a giggle, and pulls her back into his arms. The touch of his plating no longer scorches - it's warm, and a comfort. 

 

“Ooooh, a space heater!” Blitzwing enthuses, and Blackarachnia feels the rumble of his words through his chest. “I like it! I might take a new alt mode.” 

 

“Mmm.” Blackarachnia closes her optics, and grins. “It's the only reason I keep you around, after all.” 


End file.
